"Delay is natural to a writer. He is like a surfer—he bides his time. Waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in. He waits for the surge (of emotion? of strength? of courage?) that will carry him along." (E.B. White, The Paris Review Interviews, 1969)

7.22.2008

One of the things I miss most about living in the West (Arizona and New Mexico) are the sunsets. Fortunately, we occasionally get some pretty spectacular ones (usually in July and August when the long daylight hours combine with rain clouds). Here are some shots from just a few evenings ago.

7.12.2008

About two weeks ago, sport and I noticed a pair of young wild turkeys hanging out near our apartment complex.

They weren't particularly aggressive, but they were not very alarmed when we walked or drove by (sometimes close enough to touch). One evening we heard what sounded like mournful screeching from one of them. We imagined the other had died because we had not seen them together in two days. Of course, the next day, both were in the herb/flower garden strutting around happily.

We haven't seen these two welcome visitors in a week. Hope they made it to the river safely, or at least to a bigger garden.

7.11.2008

Just got the new College Composition and Communication June 2008 issue, so naturally I picked one article to tear through and deconstruct. Sean Zwagerman's article "The Scarlet P: Plagiarism, Panopticism, and the Rhetoric of Academic Integrity" seemed the most likely suspect, especially considering I wrote my dissertation on the history of surveillance in an array of Internet technologies. I fully expected to hate, or at least feel vastly superior to, any argument I found in his article. Foucault's study on Bentham's never-built Panopticon usually anchors poorly-written English department scholarship. In an almost quotidian way, Dr. Zwagerman's article exceeded my expectations. He does a very nice job situating the paradox of the switch to what Lanham calls an economy of attention in the plagiarism wars. What used to be a valuable commodity (or is at least claimed in our nostalgic and rhetorical constructions of the past), "voice" and "originality" has given way to something much, much different. Zwagerman situates the reader between the ethical horns of the dilemma perfectly. He uses Michel Foucault and Friere (which almost lost me, to be frank) to discuss how power is given over to proprietary places like turnitin.com, etc. The paradox lies in how the drive for integrity gets lost the second one tries to ensure trust through algorithmic checkpoints.

The only disappointment is really an opening for me to take Zwagerman's argument farther. He never says what replaces originality (or its evil twin "intellectual property"). Using his ethical framework, I think it would be interesting to imagine a set of values and competencies beyond trust and solidarity. After all, the music industry is beginning to learn that music data isn't as valuable as embodied experiences. Forget the album. Sell the concert, the backstage party. Heck, make it into a 3-D movie and convince people they need to be there to see it first. For many dyed-in-the-wool compositionists, it may be hard to imagine what students and parents might sign up for if the essay dies, but I think there are plenty of three-dimensional, 360 degree, surround-sound writing activities that can help teachers, students, and writers destroy the concept of plagiarism. Will students continue to betray our trust? Of course. So, too, will teachers betray student trust. Does that call for a system that memorializes these rather small slights with things like academic death penalties and even firings? I hope not.

7.09.2008

you've been a prisonerbeen a prisoner all your lifeheld captive in an alien worldwhere they hold your need for love to your throat like a knifeand they make you jumpand they make you do tricksthey take what started off as such an innocent heartand they break it and break it and break ituntil it almost can't be found

well i don't know whenand it don't know howi don't know how long it's gonna takei don't know how hard it will bebut i knowyou will go free

you can call it the devilcall it the big liecall it a fallen worldwhat ever it is it ruins almost everything we tryit's the sins of the fathersit's the choices we makeit's people screaming without making a soundfrom prison cells in paradisewhere we're chained to our mistakes

well i don't know whenand it don't know howi don't know how much it's gonna cost youprobably everythingbut i knowyou will go free

you can't see your jaileryou can't see the barsyou can't turn your head round fast enoughbut it's everywhere you areit's all around youand everywhere you walk this prison yard surrounds you

but in the midst of all this darknessin the middle of this nighti see truth cut through this curtain like a laserlike a pure and holy lightand i know i can't touch you nowand i don't want to speak too soonbut when we get sprungfrom out of our cages babygod knows what we might do

well i don't know whenand it don't know howi don't know if you'll be leaving aloneor if you'll be leaving with mebut i knowyou will go free